Of the Smallest Value and Size
by penny dreadfully
Summary: Molly Hooper has always existed in the background of Sherlock Holmes' life. Moriarty would like to adjust that situation
1. Prologue

With the vindication of Sherlock upon his return over a year ago he had become, if not a hero, at least someone the public respected. As such, there was no way to present the return of Moriarty as anything but the declaration of war. The whole of the commonwealth could feel terror building- but there was no release. There were no bombs, no threats. Just silence. So London kept on about its business, the people scurrying around, not knowing what the spider had planned.

"I know what he's waiting for."

"Who?"

"Moriarty, of course."

"Ah"

As Sherlock had declared this after a two hour long staring competition with the blank telly, John was inclined to believe that Sherlock had come to this conclusion after an intense bout of thinking, rather than a sojourn to his Mind Palace. Sherlock was now sauntering around the room- the self-satisfied look on his face enough reason not to encourage him. But as John really did want to know what Moriarty was up, and four months was a long time to wait for the other shoe, most likely filled with C-4 explosives, to drop, he decided to send a little encouragement Sherlock's way.

"And what does James Moriarty want? Why is he waiting?"

"He wants us on edge. He wants me to feel safe- to feel like I have everyone protected and I do. The girls that beat up Graham-"

"Greg, and it was a gang of five women, none of whom he so much as hit before Doonavan showed up"

"That sinister little mugging someone attempted on Mrs. Hudson"

"Yeah- how did you know to dash down there?"

"Homeless Network John. Although why Mycroft's people were so slow to react is still a mystery."

"Right. And the man who broke into Mary and I's flat was pretty much a Moriarty stand-in."

John grimaced at the memory of Mary's phone call. She had been perfectly calm, but the sound of his new born daughter screaming in the background as Mary explained in a steady voice that she had just killed an intruder was enough to make him clench his jaw in worry. The man hadn't been prepared. Either Moriarty didn't know (unlikely) or had chosen not to tell his lackey (most likely scenario) that Mary was a special-ops trained assassin. And a new mother. Sherlock grinned at the policeman's look of horror at the bludgeoned intruder. Mary had given the most beautiful statement- he believed he recalled hearing the words "hormonal" given as an excuse. "And that idiot that tried to follow you home with a switchblade- how pedestrian."

As John had been attacked in a dark alley while walking home John half though Sherlock had made a pun, but dismissed the idea.

"But no one was hurt. Well, Greg a bit. But even he admitted it was mostly his pride. So what does Moriarty get from us thinking we've outsmarted him?"

"Oh, no, John. These little tests weren't so that we could prove we could protect our own. He knew that. He must know about the surveillance. I think his marking the pieces of the game. Showing us that he knows how we are going to play the game. He's preparing the board."

Sherlock steepeled his hands under his chin. "I know what he doing. But I don't know what he's going to do. All the pieces are accounted for. The board is set. So what is the next move?"

John waited a bit but Sherlock seemed happy to continue starring at the blank screen. In exasperation he spat out "so what is his next move?"

"No idea."


	2. Chapter 1

Molly walked with purpose back to the morgue. Her lab tests had been inconclusive. She wanted to take another look at the blunt trauma to Naomi Rovia's head. What she had assumed was rust from the tire lever had in fact been blusher mixed with soot, and she had no idea how to account for it. She half-heard Sherlock say "obviously" in the back of her mind, and smile quirked up one corner of her mouth. Of course, he would take one look at the results, a fleeting glance at the body, and explain in gruesome detail the entire event. Such good fun at parties. Molly had a full-fledged smile on her face as she swiped her key card at the entrance to the morgue, juggling her files, coffee, and now her card. Ever since the return of Moriarty, or at least the return of his face on the telly, security had tightened considerably. All for the best Molly supposed. With Lestrade, John, and Sherlock himself flitting about at all hours of the day and night it really was best to be on guard. Molly put the stack of files on the desk closest to the wall. Sherlock preferred the microscope on the end, and Lestrade had mentioned calling him in on the suicide in locker fourteen. She'd already had a sip of her coffee before she noticed the man fiddling with the equipment in the dark corner of tile lined room. She gave a start, spilling a bit of the hot liquid across her hand and the sleeve of her lab coat. Reminding herself of the new security measures she called out.

"Hello?"

The overhead Dictaphone had been wonky of late, perhaps he was here to get it sorted. He was wearing the yellow security badge the IT department used though- the Dictaphone really should be worked on by a lab technician. He still hadn't turned around- maybe he hadn't heard her? Molly took a few steps closer, despite the deep voice of warning, sounding suspiciously like Sherlock's, cautioning her that this man was highly suspicious. Pushing that voice aside, because she couldn't live her life afraid of everything, Molly tried to sound cheerful as she called out again- "Excuse me? Can I help you?"

Molly barely had time to gasp before his gloved hand was wrapped around her wrist and wrenching it behind her back. His face was covered by a surgical mask, but his eyes were calm, not really widening in surprise as Molly dropped her paper coffee cup, the plastic lid making an odd crinkling sound as it spilled on the floor. After the initial gasp of surprise Molly realized she really should scream, attract some help, but the cool tile of the supporting pillar was already in front of her, and then everything was far too loud, then at last everything was black and quiet.

Sherlock swept up to the lab door, rapping imperiously on the metal frame. He pulled out his phone and began texting, fully confident Molly would have the door unlatched within a few seconds. He had even pushed against the door without hearing the dull ratcheting sound to tell him the key had been swiped. He looked up in mild surprise when the door did not give to his touch. John sighed beside him.

"She is working Sherlock. Give her a moment."

"This is nonsense. These security measure would be child's play to circumvent. That fact that I'm even waiting out here is so the hospital feels like they got their money's worth"

Sherlock sniffed and rapped again.

"You helped install the bloody thing, or at least pick it out. Why'd you pick this one if it's so useless?"

"It was the best available."

"So the best available security would be 'child's play' to outsmart, in the place where everyone you know, except Mrs. Hudson spends a decent amount of time. I think you're just mad they wouldn't give you your own security badge."

"I have a hospital badge."

"Not to the labs, and not to the morgue. You still need supervision."

Sherlock put his phone away as John, smirking a bit, pressed his face against the glass hoping to see Molly walking out of the office. He pressed the intercom at the side of the door. It made a truly irritating beeping sound in the morgue so most avoided its use.

"Molly- are you in there?"

"Of course she's in there John. She left the lab hours ago and canteen was empty."

"Maybe she's in the loo?"

Sherlock hummed a non-committal noise. At last he pressed his own face against the glass, using his long fingers to cup around and block some of the hallway's florescent glare. John felt him tense, and looked askance as Sherlock began rummaging through his pockets.

"Call Lestrade."

Sherlock's voice was calm, but it took him two tries to pull the magnetic card out from his coat. He swiped the card and stalked into the morgue with the kind of repressed frantic energy John often noticed him employ at crime scenes.

"Why? To let him know you stole his I.D. badge? Again."

All the same John already had the phone pressed against his ear. When he was at last inside he saw what had made Sherlock rush so. A canteen coffee cup was spilled on the ground, all the lights dimmed, no body on the table. Molly was not here- but someone had been. John tried to stay calm.

"Maybe she spilled it- ran to get a towel."

Sherlock didn't respond. He was staring at the support pillar, his face locked into the blank expression he used when he didn't want to reveal anything. John walked around so he could see whatever it was that was making Sherlock Holmes look so intense. A splotch of blood, already starting to turn brown, was drying along the corner edge of the pillar. He looked down, several splatters of blood lead into the darkened corner of the morgue. John compared the height of the stain to himself- the shoulder of a taller man perhaps- or the head of a woman even smaller than he. John at last heard Lestrade pick up on the fifth ring.

"Greg. It's John. Yes. We need you at the morgue of St. Bart's. No. It's not about the suicide. Yes it's- Greg. Molly's been hurt."

"Taken John. Molly's been taken."

It took Lestrade a full twenty six minutes to walk into the morgue. He was hindered in no small part by the fact that he had lost his ID badge to the hospital. Now that security was on high alert he had to find a nurse to vouch for him. He was greatly relieved when Donovan showed up with her fully functioning key card. Whatever feeling of calm he had felt vanished when he saw Sherlock crouched down, scraping blood off tiles. As John had, he compared the height of the stain to his own and was struck afresh with the idea that Molly Hooper was small.

Sherlock was now measuring the distance between the blood spatters on the floor. The coffee spill had been cordoned off. Sherlock hadn't bothered to take off his scarf or coat and Lestrade was half afraid he would trail through the evidence. Which was foolish of course. Sherlock didn't destroy evidence. Lestrade set his techs to taking photos and speaking to security guards. He'd already been told the video feed into the morgue had been cut- physically cut the cable, so there was nothing there. Lestrade had someone pulling up the log for all the card swipes between here and the canteen, the last place Molly had been seen. John was talking to the head of security, his voice calm and low, but he was in what Lestrade personally considered to be his "soldier" posture, that made people just that much more likely to pay attention to him. The morgue area had been thoroughly searched. Molly's bag was still tucked below her desk, her things untouched in her locker. A search of the whole building was underway, but Lestrade held no hope she was still here. The blood on the pillar, not even a large amount, perhaps half the size of his hand, and the stuttering trail of blood that ended abruptly in the dark corner, made that possibility very remote.

Sherlock stood up from his crouch.

"Six foot two. Male. Well-built. A stiff right knee, possibly arthritic, more likely an old injury. Right handed. Well trained, but not military. Thinning hair. Slightly deaf."

Lestrade looked up from his notes. Sherlock had that intensely focused look he often got when a case had truly captured his attention. But his mouth was pursed, a thin line. Lestrade felt a tug deep in his stomach. If Sherlock was worried…well, it wasn't good.

"So he surprised her then? Came up behind her?"

Lestrade gestured to the coffee spill. Sherlock twisted his lip half prepared to rip apart Lestrade's assessment. His shoulders deflated before he could.

"No. She surprised him. He was here- most likely in disguise- a lab tech, nurse, IT, something. Molly walks in, quiet- and as he is deaf, doesn't notice. She, being stupid and having no sense of self- preservation-"

At this Sherlock takes in a long shaking breath and Greg resists the urge to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in comfort. At the same time he felt a hint of anger at Molly himself. They had all been vigilant. Moriarty certainly hadn't been silent about his interest in Sherlock's…circle. Why she didn't dial security the moment she noticed an unknown man in her lab was a mystery he was fully prepared to shake and scold her for. As soon as they got her back. John had wandered over, anxious to hear just what had happened. Sherlock composed himself.

"She approaches. He uses this to his advantage. He allows her to come to here. John. Stand, just so."

Sherlock adjusted John to suit him, then turned so they both faced the dark corner. "She has the coffee in her hand, like they are going to have a nice _chat"_Sherlock spat the last bit out before whirling around and grabbing John's left wrist.

"She drops the coffee. She is about to scream, and he is unprepared, so he had to act quickly. He turns her-"

Sherlock gently but firmly twists John's wrist until they are both facing the pillar and then uses his free hand to mime bashing John's forehead into the corner. Lestrade tries to hold back a wince- He feels his eyebrow twitch regardless.

"Now Molly is disoriented, bleeding. He drags her-"

Sherlock slips an arm around John's waist, making him double over as Sherlock half carries him to the dark corner. Lestrade can see how this stuttering walk would have made the erratic splatter pattern across the floor.

"Then he dumps her onto a cot, a laundry basket, anything."

John stands upright as Sherlock releases him. Sherlock is taking great whiffs of the air. Lestrade shifts his feet as the silence goes on. He ventures a guess.

"Molly's perfume?"

"Molly doesn't wear perfume. No. There is something. Chloroform? That's so- old fashioned. And that would take several minutes. So…ether?

"So we are looking for someone pushing a bed or a laundry basket?"

"Yes. We can find the exit he used. Possibly the car."

"And that will lead us to Molly?"

Sherlock stared into his eyes. Lestrade realized he was pale, his eyes overly bright. A fleeting thought that perhaps Sherlock was high filtered across his brain, but Greg ignored it. Even if Sherlock were stoned beyond reason he was still the best person to find Molly.

"Has she testified recently?"

Lestrade was taken aback but the change in questioning. "Ahh, two weeks ago. She testified in the Jenoa murders. But that's just my cases. I don't know if she's been to court with someone else."

"Anything she's working on now? Anything dangerous- anyone still at large, want to stop the chain of evidence?"

John was already flipping through the stack of files piled neatly against the wall. If Sherlock noticed that she had straightened the area around "his" microscope he made no sign.

"Doesn't look like anything unusual. The suicide you wanted to look at was on top."

John handed the files to Sherlock, but he didn't take them.

"Do you have the key logs?"

Lestrade gestured to the computer screen closest to him. Donovan was already ordering the security guards around. They would have everyone who had been in the morgue for the last forty eight hours in an interrogation room in the next forty minutes.

Sherlock scanned a glance down the security log. Molly had clocked in for work at 11:52 pm. She had keyed into the morgue at 3:07 am. That was a full four hours ago. He looked at the name that had keyed in above hers. A Seamus O'Muircheartaigh had keyed in at 2:58. His eyes narrowed as he pulled out his mobile his hand swiftly moving across the screen. His face tightened as he turned to one of the lab station computers. He pulled up a ridiculous looking blog- a pink background with abstract floral designs and kitten's of all things. It was sweet, really, but John didn't understand. "What are you doing? Molly hasn't updated that thing in years…"

John's voice trailed off because, while were no new entries, there was a hyperlink imbedded in the last entry. "Stay happy everyone xx" was now underlined and blue. Lestrade motioned a tech over, who proceeded to do something with wires and a laptop. Sherlock waited impatiently, body taunt, vibrating. John tried to get him to respond.

"What does this mean? Who has her? Sherlock- what was Molly involved in?"

When the tech at last gave a nod to Lestrade Sherlock clicked on the link. An imbedded video filled the screen. At first there was nothing, indistinguishable dim shadows. Two people could be heard breathing. One shallow and rasping, the other deep and calm. At last a light was turned on, flooding the video. Once the room came into focus Lestrade heard John pull in a breath. He felt himself do the same. Sherlock merely steepled his hands under his chin.

The video showed Molly, fully clothed, dazed, her wrists and ankles zip tied to a wooden kitchen chair. The left side of her face was covered in blood from the wound on her forehead, the bruise already forming across her cheek. Her hair looked matted with blood. A voice, high, Irish, called from behind the camera "Molly. Molly time to wake. Molly. MOLLY!"

This last was shouted, harsh, terrifying after the soothing lilt of the previous summons. Lestrade felt John twitch just as he had. On the video Molly fully opened her eyes, but she didn't jump, but rather seemed to cower.

"This is Molly Hooper Sherlock. I bet you think you know everything about her. I bet you took one look at those ugly shoes and that untrimmed hair and decided you knew absolutely everything there was to know about mousy Molly Hooper."

The camera was moving around the chair. John was glad to see the head wound seemed to have stopped bleeding. She didn't seem to be hurt in any other way. But the way she had yet to truly focus made him nervous. Her mouth was slack, her eyes scrunched closed. John couldn't tell if she was trying to shut out the harsh light or put some distance between herself and the man with the camera.

"I thought the same thing when I met her. I mean she's not exactly complicated, is she Sherlock? She's just so ordinary. So easy to push around, to take things from. But I overlooked her. She was important. Clever boy Sherlock, using the pawn to get all the way across the board. But now I feel like we should both get to know Molly Hooper just a little bit better. Don't you agree Sherlock? I mean, our toys always last longer when we take care of them."

There was that awful giggle, disturbing in its mirth. Molly let out a whimper as a hand stroked along her hair. Lestrade saw Sherlock physically react for the first time since the video began. His fingers tightened as he clasped them together, his face coming closer to the screen. The camera shook as the man stepped away from the chair.

"So we are going to play a little party game with Molly Hooper here. Bit of twenty questions, and if you play along you get Molly Hooper back. What do you say darling? Sound like fun? Won't it be nice when Sherlock knows all your secrets?"

Molly turned her head away, trying to avoid the hand reaching for her chin. She was still disoriented, from the drugs or the blow to the head, or both and didn't do much but wobble her head before the hand gripped her jaw.

"Don't be like that love. It wasn't all bad between us. Now tell my Molly dear, at least I'm not like all the rest. Tell me, who was the worst beau you've ever had?"

Molly opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The hand gripped a bit tighter. She cleared her throat, tried to focus her eyes a bit. The men watched as Molly looked beyond the camera to whoever was holding the camera. Her shoulders were stiff, hunched forward. Her voice came out weak, a little slurred. She spared a glance at the camera before turning back to the person holding it.

"You."

With Molly's quiet answer the screen went blank. The men all leaned back from the screen.

"Jesus."

Lestrade nodded his agreement with John. Sherlock tried to bring the video back up, the hyperlink now lead to a 402 bad gateway. It had been a onetime play.

"That wasn't actually Moriarty was it? I mean- it sounded like him, and I know it's been his network circling the hounds- but that's not actually him in that room with Molly?"

John crossed his arms, shaking his head as he tried to form a response.

"It did sound like him. But the room echoed- like big basement? Sherlock? Any idea where we should be looking?"

"Old boyfriends. Obviously."

"What? No. From the video. Do you have any idea where she might be?"

"Anywhere within a two hour drive from London. She been tied to that chair for at least an hour, but not sedated again. He wanted her conscious for the video. That room was recently built within a large room, a factory floor or warehouse. There are at least two men there, a camera operator and someone else, but not the person who initially abducted her. But that is not how we will find Molly. We need to track down her..._beaus."_

Sherlock said the last with heavy sarcasm.

"How is that going to help?"

"I haven't the faintest. But it can't be especially hard. Molly has had two relationships since I have been acquainted with her. One was three dates with a criminal mastermind and the other was an eight month long farce that ended in a failed engagement. I don't imagine she's left a trail of broken hearts."

With that Sherlock stood up from the computer chair.

"Where are you going?"

"To see the only beau we know of."


	3. Chapter 2

Tom's address was background information in Sherlock's mind, just at the offices and favorite pubs of John's drinking mates were stored away in his hard drive. It wasn't important information, but in an emergency it could be necessary. He shouted an address to the cab driver, John already on the phone to Mary. Their flat was safe enough, and transit was more dangerous. Mary was calm- asking if Molly looked alright in the video. Molly and Mary certainly didn't have much in common, but surviving extended exposure to Sherlock is usually enough to form a bond. Plus Molly had been very gracious about baby-sitting at absurd hours on two separate occasions. John spent a few moments on the phone, reassuring himself of her and their child's safety. Mrs. Hudson was still asleep in her flat, but Sherlock's informants assured him that Mycroft's presence had been doubled in the last ten minutes. Lestrade was still at the hospital scouring through video footage hoping to find the abductor's car. Sherlock sorted all of this in a matter of seconds assuring himself he could focus all of his attention Moriartiy's task.

What was the point of this? What would learning about Molly's past accomplish? It was tedious. Sherlock was certain Molly had her secrets. Everyone did. But he had spent an accumulation of several weeks at her flat over the last three years. He had been in her bedroom, looked through her cupboards. He had a few suspicions about a few old boyfriends, but nothing that would put her in immediate danger. The only acquaintances she'd had for more than six years were friends from university and all three were female. There was no male presence in her life from the past. Knowledge of her past relationships was unnecessary. So why? To torment Molly- so she would have to watch as he tore apart her boyfriends? Then why keep her sedated? To hurt him? Why not someone else? Surely Mary would have a more titillating story to tell. Sherlock left off trying to understand Moriarty's motivations and moved onto his methods. Molly had been taken from the lab, not her flat, even though Moriarty had been there. Molly had taken the madman to her living space. Because she truly had no sense of self preservation. That means he had expected her absence would have been noticed.

Sherlock began to worry about time. Had she been taken from her flat it would have been reasonable for no one to notice Molly was missing until she failed to turn up for work. But she had been taken from the morgue- not a busy place certainly, but there was light traffic. But it had taken four hours for anyone to notice. It was fortunate it had been he that discovered it- it had saved initial time, but perhaps Moriarty had expected a faster response. There had been no mention of a deadline, but there was no reason to assume there wasn't one. It had been twelve hours the last time, but that didn't mean much. Moriarty was so changeable after all. And would that be twelve hours for each relationship, or for all? To pile on Sherlock still wasn't certain what he would be looking for.

He replayed Moriarty's message in his head, trying his utmost not to echo the whimper Molly had made as the hand had dragged through her hair. _That wasn't helpful_. Moriarty had called her a "pawn", said she'd already gotten "across the board". A chess reference? Sherlock hated chess. So boring. Did that make Molly a queen somehow? Ridiculous. Moriarty would never consider someone else a queen. Sherlock couldn't help the half smirk that formed across his face. His mind flashed back to Molly's glazed eyes and his lips thinned again into a determined line. What else had Moriarty said? "A party game, twenty questions"? No that wasn't the answer. What? What should he be looking for when they entered Tom's dismal little flat? Sherlock raced through the message searching for the clue. "So easy to push around, to take things from". Of course. What had her boyfriend's taken from her? It could be anything really. Molly was generous (idiotically giving) to a fault. She rarely said no when anything was requested of her. And in a relationship…Sherlock had no trouble believing a few ex-boyfriends had taken things from her. But what of Tom? What specifically had he taken? Would it be an object? What if it wasn't something tangible? Was he supposed to text back something inane like "trust" or "happiness"? No. That wasn't Moriarty's style. There would be something. He would know it when he found it.

It was still quite early when they arrived at Tom's flat. It was in a fairly nice neighborhood, quite close to the graphic design office where Tom worked. Where he did…something. Sherlock couldn't tell if he had deleted Tom's actual occupation or if he had just never bothered to learn. Regardless he would be expected at work within the next hour and it was perfectly acceptable to pound on his door as if judgment had come. John cast a sidewise glance at him, but quickly reverted to his "calm, but I can be intimidating if you like" posture he often employed in situations like this. There was the sound of rustling behind the door, but no suggestion that Tom planned to answer the door. Sherlock pounded again. Still nothing. Sherlock began eyeing the lock, judging if it would be faster to pick the lock or just smash the door down. John tried this time, rapping lightly.

"Tom. It's Dr. Watson. It's about Molly."

At last there was the sound of the security chain rattling. Then a dead bolt. Then Tom's bleary eyed face came around the door, his patterned silk dressing gown visible through the crack. "It's not eight yet. What's gone on?"

Sherlock simply pushed the door open and stepped to the middle of the room. He began to deduce with an intensity that seemed dangerous. In the background he could hear John explaining, in very vague terms, that Molly was in trouble and it was possible that something was here that would help her.

"She didn't stay here much really. I tried to get her to move in a few times, but it's so far from St. Bart's. And it's been over a year. She picked all her things up ages ago."

Tom seemed a bit contrite now that he knew Molly was in trouble. He went to put the kettle on, asking John questions John was trying hard not to answer. Sherlock blocked them out. He needed to concentrate. The flat was messy, but not overly so. Two laptops, both expensive, both Tom's. Dishes scattered across the coffee table, but nothing more than two days old. Tabloid magazines under the couch. Two packs of cigarettes and three, no four lighters scattered throughout the flat. Posters, neatly framed, but cheap prints, hung on the walls. The television was large, new, the video game system two generations out of date. The bookshelf had computer manuals and art books, spy thrillers and..cookbooks? Sherlock widened his eyes.

"The ring."

He stalked into the kitchenette area. Tom was a tiny bit taller than himself, but Sherlock still managed to look down his nose at the man. The dressing gown was expensive, as was Tom's hair cut, but Sherlock already knew he was a bit of a fop. The traces of night cream across his eyes suggested vanity, a touch of fear at approaching middle age. So a younger woman. Tom clutched his mug of tea a bit tighter, but tried valiantly to keep his posture relaxed. "Sorry?"

"The ring. Molly's ring. I can only assume she returned it to you after the break up."

"What about it?"

"Where is it? I need to see it."

"I sold it mate. Ages ago. Like I said, it was over a year ago."

"And you are already getting married again. I suppose congratulations are in order. The ring. I. Need. To. See. It."

Tom did cower a bit at this. "I pawned it at the place on Riverside Street. Months ago."

Sherlock scanned his face. He wasn't lying. Did Moriarty want him to chase down the physical ring? No. That was stupid. It would be difficult to trace. And time was a factor. "The receipt then. Did you keep that?"

Tom swallowed. "Yeah actually. What's all this about? How's a receipt going to help Molly? What's going on?"

John decided it was time he interjected. "Look, I know it doesn't make sense, but just help us. I promise this will be helping Molly."

John put on his best 'trustworthy doctor' face and Tom sighed in defeat.

"Hang on."

Tom left, to rummage through a sock drawer no doubt. He returned carrying a small red leather box and a slightly crumpled receipt. Sherlock scanned the receipt. There was nothing. No name, no number that would lead him to Molly. Was he searching in the wrong place? At last something caught his eye.

"You lied."

Tom reared back a little.

"I did not."

"Yes you did. You said you sold Molly's ring, pawned it actually."

John scowled as he made the connection between Moriarty's message and the emphasis Sherlock placed on the word 'pawn'. Sherlock nodded at him.

"In fact you _exchanged_ her ring. Less than a month after the break up. For store credit. You never even had her ring sized properly. It was entirely too big for her. She mentioned it to you, twice. But you never offered to have it sized. But three weeks after the break up you returned to the same jeweler to return it for store credit. You, while a vain man, do not wear jewelry. So you must have had a specific purchase in mind. Then, ten months after the end of your engagement to Molly Hooper you buy this ring with the store credit from Molly's ring." Sherlock held up a third, smaller receipt.

"And three weeks ago you had this ring resized."

The receipts were placed on the counter with a bit more force than he originally intended. "I don't believe you cheated on Molly. I would have noticed that. But this girl-"

"Megan"

John was slightly impressed. Not many people tried to interrupt Sherlock when he was explaining their many faults. Sherlock opened up the box, looking at the ring itself. It was nice enough, similar to the one he had chosen for Janine. Very different from the channel setting Molly had chosen. Sherlock had approved of the style actually. There was nothing raised that would catch on her gloves. But there was nothing else in the box. Nothing that could tell him where Molly was. He started deducting out loud, mostly as a way to relive the tension.

"This woman was someone you knew before Molly. Your friends and family didn't approve. Perhaps because of her smoking habit, her estrangement from her father, her previous husband, but most likely because of her works as a 'page three girl'. So when it ended you agreed to give it a try with nice, quiet, professional Molly Hooper. Sweet Molly Hooper, who was oh so sympathetic when you talked about your heartbreak. Sweet Molly Hooper who would take a forty minute tube ride here and the leave in the morning for a hour long tube ride to work, but you never offered her a drawer."

"Now that's not fair. I asked Molly to move in loads of time. And I didn't start seeing Megan again until after Molly ended it. And Molly ended it, not me."

"There is hope for her yet."

John pulled in a breath at that. Because while yes, a tiny part of him was amused watching Sherlock tear down Molly's old boyfriend, this wasn't exactly helping them find her. But Sherlock seemed convinced the ring was the clue. But there was nothing. There was no engraving, no stamp on the box, no clue in the receipts. So what did Moriarty want them to see? Sherlock had resorted to peeling the leather off the box in the hope that there was something hidden underneath. John was on the verge of stopping him, because this was starting to be ridiculous, they needed to move one, find the real clue, when they both saw the edge of cardboard sticking to the bottom of the ring case. Tom seemed utterly befuddled.

"What's that? I picked that up a week ago yeah? So someone planned this? What is going on? Is Molly in real trouble?"

John made no comment when Sherlock's hands trembled just the tiniest bit as he slid the cardboard square out from the leather. One side had three yellow circles suspended from a bar, the middle slightly lower than the others. The other side had "SE1" typed onto it. Nothing else. It was high grade paper, printed on a hand operated press, the ink commercial grade. It smelled only of the leather and cardboard box. Whoever had handled it had used latex, no, nitrate gloves. Very little could be learned from the actual paper. So what of the message? "SE1" was most likely the beginning of coordinates. The idea of Molly being kept in a singular postcard was dismissed out of hand. Too obvious. Somewhere in London then. Most likely. Sherlock flipped the card back to the three circles. He flipped through his mind for an answer- alchemic? A diagram? A mathematical equation?

"Pawn brokers?"

Sherlock and John both turned their head to look at Tom. His fluffy ginger curls bounced as he nodded to the card.

"My firm does a lot of logos, marketing you know? That's why they have the brass balls hanging out front all the time- been around since Middle Ages they say."

Sherlock stared back at the card

"Yes. He's put Molly in hock."

"Sherlock, you don't mean we have to –"

John cut himself up abruptly as he looked over at Tom. Tom's lips had pinched closed and he was staring hard at his tea.

"Look- I know you don't think I was any good for Molly. And maybe it was easier to take her home to my parents than it was to take home a glamor model. But I loved her. I wouldn't have asked her to marry me if I didn't. If she's in trouble, danger, I want to help her. She was good to me you know? She's a sweet girl Molly."

Sherlock went to sneer at this little display, but John's hand on Tom's shoulder stopped him. "You already have mate. Don't worry. We'll take care of Molly."

Sherlock placed the ruined box back on the counter. There wouldn't be any more clues to be had there. He turned to Tom. "What of Molly? Did she keep in contact with any old boyfriends? Did she have male friends that made you suspicious?"

Tom looked a bit gobsmacked. "Besides you?"

Sherlock glowered. "I am irrelevant."

"No. No. I mean I know she dated a few guys in uni, but nothing serious from what I understand. I'd talk to Ana if I was you. They was friends back in Sheffield. That's how we met. I used to play rugby with Ana's brother."

Tom offered up a half smile at this bit of personal information. Sherlock did his best not to sniff at the idea of awkward Tom on the rugby field.

"Do you have her number?"

"Yeah. One mo."

John collected the number from Tom while Sherlock pulled out his own mobile. He logged onto Molly's account. He cracked the password on the second try. (He had started with Tobias, then remembered she did not yet have the creature when she created the blog. L'Inconnue de la Seine, no spaces was the answer. He remembered seeing a print in her office area. Expensive. A gift.) He posted _Tom, The ring, SE1_as a reply to the dead video post. There was no immediate response, not that he was expecting one. Sherlock stalked out of the door, glad to be gone from this place. There was nothing of Molly here, not a single knick-knack or dvd. Tom had never really let her make a place for her in his home. Sherlock knew there were still biscuits- the kind Tom preferred -hidden away on a top shelf in Molly's kitchen. She had bought them for Tom, then forgotten about them. She was too short to see them and remember. Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat.

"John."

With that Sherlock headed to the stairs, leaving John to say the goodbyes. There was a police car waiting for them outside, care of Lestrade. The officer didn't ask many questions, just drove them back to NSY as instructed. John was attempting to get Ana on the phone. Sherlock rechecked the blog for any reply. Molly had been taken at 3:10 am. It was now 9:12 am. She had been the captive of a mad man for six hours. He had no idea how much longer she would remain so. John had dialed three times already but there had been no response. He had left a message each time, urging her to call him, leaving both his own and Lestrade's number. John sent a quick text to Mary, letting her know they were making progress.


	4. Chapter 3

**Author Notes:** Thank you, everyone who's been reading. I posted the last few chapters in a flurry of hard-drive clearing, and I just realized I never added a disclaimer or notes. Obviously Sherlock Holmes and company are not mine. This story has been floating around my computer for a while now. I always imagined Moriarty would be back to settle the score, and I have a decided fondness for Molly, so this fic was born.

This has not been beta'd or Brit-picked. I have quite a few chapters if anyone would like to take up the challenge.

Thanks again for reading!

Sherlock was surprised by the number of people scurrying around Lestrade's office. Not just junior officers. Other DI's would appear at random to offer help and resources.

"Is this all for Moriarty?"

"No, you ass, this is for Molly."

Lestrade took a deep breath. "Sorry. No need for that. We like Molly. She has the highest conviction rate at Bart's."

Sherlock watched as the other officers all nodded. He tried to imagine awkward, stuttering Molly Hooper behaving impressively in the courtroom. Well, he supposed it wasn't too much of a stretch. Once they had moved beyond her silly crush on him she was eminently knowledgeable. He had just never bothered to think of her in court.

John was already filling Lestrade in.

"We found the first clue. Looks like coordinates. And something to do with pawn shops."

"Should we be looking into pawn brokers then?"

"No. The pawn shops are just a motif. He won't be keeping her somewhere so obvious. I've posted the first clue onto the blog. He should respond soon."

Sherlock turned to a spare computer, pulling up Molly's blog. Still nothing. He opened his own blog and John's just to be certain. Nothing. It had been twenty minutes since he had posted the response. He began to feel anxious. He pulled up Molly's work email and her personal account. Then John's and his own. Nothing. John came to stare at the multitude of tabs as he dialed Ana's number for the twelfth time. He opened his mouth to say something to Sherlock then his eyes widened with surprise.

"Hi-Ana? Yes, this is Dr. John Watson. Yes, that one, Thank you. Listen, this is about Molly. No, I got the number from Tom. Ana I need you to listen for a second. Moly's in, well, she in trouble. We need to find an old boyfriend."

The room had gone quite once John had started speaking. Sherlock opened his eyes wide and waved at John impatiently. Lestrade had pulled out his own mobile to start recording. John removed the phone from his ear and pressed the speaker button. Lestrade took over from there.

"Ana? This is Detective Inspector Lestrade with New Scotland Yard. Look, we need to know who Molly dated last. Before Tom."

The unseen Ana had gasped when she realized she was on the phone with the police. "Where is Molly? What happened? Is she alright? Let me speak to her."

The room shifted uncomfortably. No one wanted this kidnapping to become public. It could set off a mass panic. Moriarty had become a media boogeyman, the last thing anyone wanted was news of a mad man stealing young women from their place of work. Lestrade took a deep breath.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that Ana. But we really need to speak to you we need to know who Molly used to date."

"Who are you? You could be anyone. Why would a Detective need to know that?"

"I am Detective Inspector Lestrade, badge number 675329. I assure you, I am only trying to help Molly. If you come down to Scotland Yard we can talk to face to face. But it really is urgent that you tell us whatever you can about Molly."

"It's Jim isn't it? It's that mad man on the telly. I told her, I told her she should just take a holiday."

There was the sound of someone holding back tears on the other line, then the increased sound of traffic. Ana had moved from an office back to the street. "I'm headed there now. What do you need to know?"

"Past boyfriends. Anyone who might have stolen or taken something from Molly."

"Molly doesn't date a lot. She hasn't seen anyone since Tom. Do you know about Tom?"

"Yes, we know about Tom and Jim. We need to know about the boyfriends before them. Friends from school."

"We met in Sheffield, in Foundation. But she did her surgical training in Derby, at the Royal. She didn't date anyone seriously once she moved to London. But there was someone in Derby. We lost touch a bit during that time. I know his first name was Isaac. They lived together, for a while I think. But when she moved back she didn't want to talk about it. She can be a bit private."

Sherlock eyes had widened at the name Isaac. He began pacing around, coat flapping. At last the turned to Donavan.

"Her bag. I need it."

With that he swept out of the room. "It's evidence. You can't-"

"Donavan."

Lestrade gave her a pleading look. Sally stopped herself from rolling her eyes, but she went to the processing area anyway. Evidence from the crime scene was still being cleared but she just shouted until someone gave it to her. She found Sherlock in an empty conference room, coat finally draped over the back of an office chair. He was checking Molly's blog again. Still no response. "He should have contacted us by now, right? Proof of life and all."

"He will."

He pulled the bag closer to himself discarding the evidence bag onto the floor. He gave a cursory glance to the outside of the bag. Coffee stain, a broken strap that had been repaired using a vertical mattress suture, washed frequently, fabric tears suggesting binders and files were often carried around. With that he undid the closure and poured the contents onto the table. Donavan made an angry sound, but Sherlock ignored her. There wasn't much inside. So she kept plenty of room for her files. Here was the usual- mobile, wallet, keys, a compact, lipstick, mascara, tampons, Paracetamol, a paperback (_Frankenstein_, well worn). There was also the debris that ends up in bags, old receipts, gum wrappers, a granola bar, loose change. Sherlock frowned. "What is the date?"

"What?"

"The date. The day of the month?"

"It's the eighteenth. What does that matter?"

"Her bills are due on the thirtieth. She is cautious. Always mails them in at least a week in advance. The stamps, the envelopes- they should be here."

With that he turned the bag inside out. There. A zippered side pocket, and yes, a crinkle of paper. He pulled out three envelopes. Two bills, and a letter, no, a card. A birthday card to a friend from uni. Sherlock set aside the card and the cheque to her dentist. ( A cleaning, hadn't even taken a half day. Went on her lunch hour.) He pulled his kit out of his coat pocket. He used the small blade to open the envelope. It was highly unlikely Moriarty had planted anything there, but no need to be incautious. There wasn't anything of note. Basic bill statement for a personal loan, ten thousand pounds. Molly had been paying it off for six years now. Sherlock did a few calculations. She had been paying thirty over the minimum for most of that time, barring two, possibly three instances. She would have it paid off in another year. Sherlock scanned the statement. There had to be more information. There. Molly was the cosigner. The original applicant, the true owner of the loan was a man. Isaac Gilson. Sherlock swept up the envelopes and left Donovan to deal with the mess.

"Lestrade. I need an address."

Ana Patel- tall, pretty, well dressed, affluent, married three years, no children, asthmatic, vegetarian, enjoyed gambling but not addicted -sat in yet another conference room, crying into a tissue. "Why can't you tell me? Where is she? "

"Ms. Patel, I am sorry but we just can't release that information. I can tell that a very dangerous man wants to hurt her, and we are trying to keep her safe."

Sherlock felt the tiniest stab of envy at the way Lestrade could reassure people. If he had been the one to tell a woman that her friend had caught the interest of a 'dangerous man' the woman would be in hysterics. But with Lestrade she was pulling herself together, and attempting to answer his questions. "We didn't meet till Foundation. We were at Sheffield together, but we didn't meet till O-chem. I think there was someone serious but I don't know. She didn't talk about anyone."

"What about not serious? A fling? Someone casual?"

Lestrade was a little taken aback when Ana let out a trill of hysterical laughter. She reined it in quickly enough. But she did start crying again. "Did you know Molly Hooper at all DI Lestrade?"

Lestrade nodded, his eyes a bit wide. "She wasn't really a _fling_ sort of girl. She..she I don't know how to put it. She was shy, yeah? But she respected herself. I always liked that abut her. But the blokes she fell for. They were always kinda, broken somehow. I'm sorry. I'm not sure if this is helpful. I never even met Isaac. I think he still lives in Dury. "

Sherlock had paused outside the door to listen to this. He cast his eyes across the hall. John was in front of the computer monitor, looking for any contact from Moriarty. He made eye contact with Sherlock and shook his eyes. Still nothing. What was Moriarty waiting for?

Sherlock motioned for John to meet him in the hallway. "This is taking too long. Moriarty should have contacted us. I've found the boyfriend and what he stole."

"What did he take?"

"Money. Molly co-signed a significant number of loans. With him. I believe he depended on her financially for a significant time."

"Can we post that? Should we be posting somewhere else? How are we supposed to contact him?"

"No. Half the answer would just make him angry. We must find the card, find the coordinates."

"Should we post it on our blog? Maybe he hasn't seen it."

"He's seen it. He just wants to remind us that we are on his schedule. I just don't know what that is. I don't know what he's doing."

"To us? Or to Molly?"

Sherlock could only grimace in response.


	5. Chapter 4

Molly felt herself waking up at last. Her head was a mass of blinding pain, focused on her left side. Her feet felt cold and slightly numb, the same with her hands. She wasn't disoriented really. She understood she had been taken, the figure with the voice that sounded so terrifyingly like Jim had her tied to chair in this room far away from anyone who could help her, anyone who could-. Molly felt herself starting to panic and made a conscious decision not to. She would not panic. Panic helped no one.

She took a deep shuddering breath and realized just how thirsty she was. Her lips felt chapped. Her tongue dry and thick. She tried to think. What would Sherlock do? Deduce his captors into a rage big enough they would let him go. As it was unlikely her captor would be kind enough to climb up onto her table so she could deduce their cause of death that option was out. So what would John or Lestrade do? Fight, she supposed. Throw a few punches, toss out a quip and run off. Molly grunted. She was being rude. John and Lestrade would both have a plan, that would involve staying calm. Mary. Mary was good at this. Molly didn't know the whole story, but she knew Mary would have gotten out of these restraints using her fingernails and shoelaces somehow.

Molly shifted slightly. She was zip tied high on her forearms and then closer to her wrists. Her ankles were zip tied to the legs of the chair. This made her hunch down, her knees and back cramping at the uncomfortable posture. She tugged a bit. Unlikely she could shimmy out of the restraints. She tried rocking side to side, not certain if being tied to a chair sideways on the floor would be an actual improvement. Maybe if she lifted up the front legs she could slide the tie over- at least free her legs? But no- the chair was bolted to the ground. Molly tried to think of the next step. What should she do? The room was empty. Cement floor. Walls of unfinished drywall, fresh. The spackle still smelled wet. No windows, no natural light. The door was metal, no lock on the inside. Molly craned her neck trying to see the rest of the room. She felt a muscle spasm in protest but she persisted. There behind her, to the right. An unfinished doorway, no door. It looked like a utility sink and toilet. Molly found herself deeply reassured by this. It meant the planned on keeping her alive. At least long enough to pee. At that though the needs of her bladder suddenly came to the fore. She wondered just how long she had been there. She looked at the bruises forming around the zip ties at her wrist. Five hours, if not longer. She remembered the man with the video. He had left after filming. The light had been dim, his face hidden behind the camera. It looked like him. But she had been drugged. Terrified. She had a concussion. It could have been anyone. Molly felt the tears start to flow. It couldn't be him. It was impossible. _It was impossible when Sherlock came back._Molly put all of her effort into ignoring that voice in her head.

The door opened suddenly, violently. It swung all the way open, the handle making an indentation in the drywall. "Awake at last sweet Molly? 'Bout time."

Molly felt herself still. It wasn't true. Jesus Mary and Joseph, this could not be happening. Jim Moriarty looking fresh and pampered in a dark, well-cut suit all but waltzed into the room.

"Oh Molly don't look so surprised. We reaffirmed our acquaintance just last night. I was a little afraid you wouldn't remember. Such a nasty head wound. Don't worry. He's been reprimanded."

Molly couldn't help but shudder as he smiled. "I'm the only one who gets to hurt you."

The tears were falling in earnest now. She tried to control the trembling of her limbs, but there was nothing she could do. She flinched away as another man entered the room. He said nothing, didn't look at her. He unclipped her ankles, then her wrists. Moriarty lounged against the wall. Molly went to leap up as soon as she was free, but the man pushed her back into the chair with one hand. She was weak, her arms and legs numb. It wasn't the best time for an escape. Moriarty didn't even smile at her little attempt. "Time for a wee and a wash Molly, we're going to make another message for Sherlock. I want him to know I'm taking good care of his toy."

Moriarty motioned to the bathroom. Molly stood up on shaking legs. There was no door, but she had to pee so badly she didn't care. She made her slow way into the room, turning on the tap to at least block the sound. It gave her a sense of privacy. She cupped her hand to take several quick swallows of the rusty water. The toilet was tucked into a corner. With the large man standing in the doorway, facing out, there was little chance Moriarty could see her. She peed quickly checking herself for injuries. Her ankles were purple already as were her wrists, but that was expected. She was wearing her own clothes. It seemed the cut on her scalp was the only real issue. She pulled her khakis back up, tucking in her blouse and buttoned her jumper all the way up. It was cold in here. There were no windows in the bathroom either, no mirrors. Just the free standing sink- no exposed pipes there or on the toilet. She didn't see anything she could use as a weapon. There was soap in the sink- dish detergent, not even a pump she could take apart. She washed her hands in the lukewarm water, soaping past the bruises. Maybe if she made her arms slick she could get out from the ties? She soaped her face next, feeling around the edges of her wound. As she pressed a fresh run of blood seeped out. She scrubbed at her scalp- she probably needed stitches. All she needed now was an infection. She dried her face as best she could with the stack of paper towels. She left her arms wet, just in case. She stood behind the man guarding the door. He was tall, not as tall as Sherlock. There was a gun holster at his side but no weapon. She didn't see anything she could steal from him, use to make her escape. And even if she could overpower him there was _him_ on the other side.

Molly felt it all crash down on her all at once. Him. He was alive. Jim Moriarty was alive. It wasn't an elaborate hoax. It wasn't his network using his image. It was him, dangerous and crazy, right through that door. And he had decided to lock her in a cell to play a little game with Sherlock. Oh God. Everyone else. Molly knew she wasn't important. She was a bit player, second billing. She was a function, not a person for Sherlock. So what was Moriarty doing to everyone else? To John? And Mary? Did he have the baby? What about Mrs. Hudson? Oh God. What was he planning?

"Come on out Molly. Don't be shy. We're going to say hello to Sherlock. I know he likes to be kept up to date."

Molly was led back to the chair. Moriarty pulled out the camera from his pocket. He fiddled with the controls while the larger man put the zip ties back on. He pulled her jumper down to dry her arms before wrapping the plastic around. Moriarty chose not to comment. Two on each arm. One around each ankle.

"How did you do it? Sherlock was right there."

"Oh. Straight to the point. It's really only of academic interest. I mean- how did Sherlock do it?"

Molly scrunched up her eyebrows in a frown. "He-"

"He did it with **_you_**. You made it possible. You fooled me little Molly Hooper. Tsk Tsk. You've impressed me. Truly. And now you your part of the game."

Molly swallowed. "And the others?"

"Oh Molly. You know you're still a second stringer don't you? Thank God he never encouraged you to develop any kind of self-worth. I'm certain Sherlock will get to you. Eventually. That why we have to send him a little reminder."


End file.
